


baby, you're a haunted house

by seabear



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: 20somethings, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Halloween, M/M, my weird fixation with guys wearing red lipstick rears its head once more
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-09 22:36:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16458320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seabear/pseuds/seabear
Summary: The thing is? Lance doesn’t even really like Halloween.





	baby, you're a haunted house

The thing is? Lance doesn’t even really like Halloween.

“Ma!” he shouts up the steps, elbow deep in cardboard boxes and dust. “Do you know where my hockey gear is?”

He gets back a distant, _“What?”_

“Do you know where my hockey gear is?!”

_“WHAT?”_

He groans, carefully climbing out of the maze of old toys and clothes and—Christ, is that his sixth grade history project on ancient Mesopotamia?—narrowly avoiding tripping over a pile of orange hot wheels tracks by catching himself on the stairwell railing. He hollers up the steps, “MY HOCKEY STUFF—WHERE IS IT?”

“You shout at me like that again and I’ll lock you down there!”

 _Good,_ Lance thinks bitterly, _then I won’t have to go._

Like, okay, when he was a kid he obviously loved it, because candy, and any opportunity he had to be like, super extra was always ten billion percent welcome. He loved mashing costumes—zombie viking, Hawaiian vampire, werewolf lawyer. He loved spending hours with his brothers and sisters and the other neighborhood kids, staying out as late as they could, running through the streets with heavy pillowcases, makeup cracking off and teeth aching from soon-to-be cavities. 

Then in high school it became the perfect excuse to party, getting truly wasted for the first time off of candy corn infused vodka and puking all over Ashleigh Muldano’s parents’ grand piano while dressed as a half-assed pirate. 

And year after year, the stench of latex and the rolling tummy aches and raging hangovers appealed to him less and less. And year after year, the pressure of having to do something Halloween night, to have somewhere to go or someone to be with, mounted higher and higher than any stack of hoarded pink Starbursts ever could. And year after year, Lance kept losing things he used to love, his siblings too old for trick or treating and his friends tucked neatly into their new lives, colleges, jobs. And things like Halloween and things like all the old bands he used to love and things like comic books and hockey and late night drives to the shore fell away like they weighed nothing when they used to sit heavy inside his full to bursting chest.

So when Hunk asked him if he wanted to go to so-and-so’s Halloween party, he’d just shrugged in response. Which apparently, to Hunk, meant a full fledged enthusiastic _yes!_ and this is why Lance has to fish out his old hockey gear from the basement and smear on a fake black eye with his sister’s eyeshadow on a friggin’ Wednesday night.

The basement door squeals open, and his mom asks, “You sure it’s not in your closet?”

Lance heaves out a sigh, “Yes, I already looked.”

“Are you _sure?”_ she needles.

“Oh my—yes, mom, I already looked.”

She squints down at him. “Why do you even need it?”

“I have a Halloween party,” Lance all but physically deflates as he says, “and I have to go as _something.”_ Because as much as he’d like to just not care, there’s something in his genetic makeup that flat out refuses. 

“Weren’t you a hockey player last year?”

“Uh, yeah, unless you have a better idea that I can throw together in the next hour?”

“Hm,” she hums thoughtfully, tapping her chin. “What about an ungrateful son? You already have the costume.”

“Just!” he throws his hands up. “Forget it! I don’t even want to go—”

He’s cut off by one of the precariously stacked box towers deciding to topple dramatically, the top box hitting the floor so hard it splits along one of its edges.

“What was that?!” his mother yells. “What did you break?”

His helmet rolls across the carpet, as bright blue as the day he got it, stopping right at his feet. He slumps forward, groaning, “Just my will to live.”

-

“That was a Pat McGrath eyeshadow, Lance!”

“Uh, who’s he?” Lance asks, and the only response he gets is a book lobbed at his head. Paperback, but still. He dodges it, ducking out the front door and thinking he really, _really_ needs to start looking for his own place. Working at the aviation museum isn't stellat pay or anything, but it’s probably enough to live paycheck to paycheck in a studio where he wouldn’t live in constant fear of sisters and their scarily accurate throwing abilities. Or where he wouldn’t have to contemplate scaling the side of his house via the tree outside his window to get back in without being noticed so he won’t have to go this godforsaken party. There’s probably not even gonna be food, and eventually some gaggle of ex-theater kids is gonna play “the Time Warp” and try to do the whole choreographed dance routine in someone’s tiny apartment living room—

“Lance!”

He tries not to look visibly bummed as he turns, Hunk pulling up to the curb with the windows of his truck rolled down, dressed in some incredibly intricate costume to some sci-fi space show Lance has never watched. He tries not the make a face, but seriously, who would ever wear a yellow space suit, fictional or not?

“Weren’t you a hockey player last year?” Hunk asks as Lance climbs into the passenger’s seat. 

“Last year I was an elite first line center,” Lance says. “This year I’m a goon.”

He points to his eyeshadow blackened eye as evidence.

Hunk squints. “Does your shiner have glitter in it?”

“If it does, it’s Pat McGrath’s fault.”

“Who’s he?”

“Dude, that’s what I’m saying.”

-

So-and-so’s house is on the outskirts of the ‘burbs, closer to the farmlands than the city center, and is packed with people Lance only sees once every couple of years, all wearing cheap costumes and drinking out of red solo cups. All of the lights have been turned off in favor of illuminating the bare walls and crumb-embedded carpet with purple and orange string lights, a plastic toy that casts ghost shaped shadows along the cracked ceiling. Someone’s iPod is plugged into a pair of beat up speakers, blaring “Thriller,” and by the third overenthusiastic _I haven’t seen you in forever!_ Lance is exhausted, thinking of his bed and the leftover pizza in the fridge back home.

“Oh hey,” Hunk motions with his drink. “Pidge is here. I’m gonna go say hello.”

Lance perks up, turning, fully ready to go with him because Pidge is actually a really cool person who will talk smack about video games with him, and even though they don’t see each other often, their DM’s are pretty regular with an exhausting amount of memes.

He’s fully ready, until he sees who’s standing with her.

“I’m gonna get more punch,” Lance tries for nonchalant, holding his cup away so Hunk won’t see that it’s still half full.

Instead, Hunk just sees right through him, face as deadpan as his voice, “Lance, seriously?”

“I'm an athlete, Hunk. We need to stay hydrated at all times. Didn't you read that article about how Tom Brady drinks like 70 glasses of water a day?”

“Whatever you say, man,” Hunk sighs. “When you’re done being a giant weenie, I’ll be talking to Pidge.”

Lance does not turn on his heel and bolt into the kitchen. If anything he just kind of...speed walks.

-

The kitchen is empty, everyone contained to the back patio or the living room where all the booze has been allocated. Lance thinks about getting drunk. He thinks about it real hard. In the end, though, he sighs, and turns back to the non-alcoholic punch bowl that for some reason has plastic green army men it it.

“Weren’t you that last year?”

Lance has to keep himself from outwardly flinching at the sound of an all too familiar voice. He pivots away from the punch, glaring over his shoulder at Keith, standing a few feet behind him, and is fully prepared to unleash a tidal wave of capital ‘s’ Snark on him, when he sees the deep red lipstick painted on Keith’s lips.

The cup falls right out of his hand and into the punch bowl.

“You,” Keith asks, slow like he thinks Lance might be broken, “alright there?”

Lance blinks. “Uh. Yes. Yeah. Obviously. Your horrifying mask just scared me, is all.”

Keith scowls at him, lips quirking down. Lance stares. Blatantly. 

“You gonna let anyone else get some punch?” Keith snaps. “Or are you just going to stand there?”

Luckily, being impossible is practically second nature and doesn’t require any real thought. Lance leans back against the counter. “Stand here.”

Keith rolls his eyes, and it’s such a well practiced and well worn move it pulls Lance out of his trance enough to remember that this is Keith. Keith. High school Keith. The same Keith who let the rats in Montgomery’s bio class loose, who got kicked out of driver’s ed for taking off in the car without the instructor, who was the direct cause of nearly all of Lance’s teenage woes.

The same Keith who's in his space now, reaching past Lance to ladle himself a cup of punch. Lance’s throat tightens, watching the orange and purple lights hanging overhead and around the otherwise dim kitchen cast their glow over Keith’s slim face, highlighting the curve of his jaw, his cheekbone. 

“What are you even supposed to be?” Lance asks, mostly to himself.

Keith steps away and holds out the edge of his cape with a small flourish, looking down at his pressed black slacks, matching waistcoat with a frilly white shirt underneath. He pulls out a set of plastic fangs from his pocket and pops them into his mouth, flashing a wide grimace-smile at Lance.

Lance can’t stop himself from saying, “What does lipstick have to do with vampires?”

Keith shrugs his shoulders, popping the teeth back out so he can talk. “It was Pidge's idea. What does glittery eyeshadow have to do with being a hockey player?”

“It’s—” Lance cuts himself off, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “Whatever. I don’t actually care.”

Keith doesn’t seem to know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything, just moves to lean against the counter with Lance like they’re gonna keep talking, like their friends or something. And sure, there has been, in the ten or so years of orbiting one another, moments of permeating okayness to break up the long bouts of fighting. He doesn’t think he hates Keith like he did when he was fifteen; he doesn’t even really think he ever hated Keith. At least, not anymore than he hated nearly everything nearly for the sake of hating back then. That doesn’t mean they talk, though. Mostly it means they snap at each other whenever they’re thrown together, mostly it means Lance more than likely going out of his way to needle the same spots he knows will get Keith to bite back, because neither of them can help it. He likes having Keith’s attention. He like keeping hold of it, some weird pseudo-payback for all the years Keith outright ignored him. 

In a moment of weird desperation, to say anything and avoid going back into the thick of the party, Lance blurts, “I didn’t even want to come tonight.”

Keith cocks an eyebrow. “Then why did you?”

“Hunk asked,” Lance sighed. “And it’s not like I have anything better to do, so.”

Keith snorts, bringing his cup to his mouth, which Lance is not staring at. “Like you don’t have a billion other parties you could be at right now.”

“Not,” Lance makes a face, “really?”

Keith looks at him, assessing, like he thinks Lance might be lying. Lance shrinks back a little, shoulders hunching. This conversation got weird, and he kind of wishes Keith would leave, or at least stop staring at him like that. Like he can see Lance’s molecules or something, eyes dark and probing and ublinking.

A clown and a...sexy raccoon? stumble into the kitchen from the living room where someone is blasting the “Monster Mash” for the billionth friggin’ time, laughing and falling over each other and nearly knocking Lance’s drink out of his hand.

He snaps, “Wanna maybe watch where you’re going?”

The clown and raccoon look at him, then back at each other for a beat before bursting out into another fit of cackling, stumbling over to the sliding patio doors and pushing outside. Lance’s face burns, met with the cold air coming in through the open doors, and god, he really wishes he didn’t come tonight. 

There’s a shoulder nudging his, and when Lance turns his head, Keith’s red mouth is right there, and so are his dark eyes, glittering from the multicolored lights. He looks...unreal, and Lance’s breath catches, staring into the face of someone he knows so well, but also not at all.

“Do you wanna,” Keith asks, jerking his head to the door, “get out of here?”

-

That’s how he ends up swinging a leg over the seat of Keith’s motorcycle, swapping his hockey helmet for the red riding helmet in Keith's backpack, wondering if he should hold onto Keith’s shoulders or his waist as he scoots forward. He’s hyper aware of the fly of his pants pressing flush to Keith’s lower back, and he knows what he wants to do. He spent months, maybe even years letting himself daydream about climbing onto the back of a motorcycle and sliding his arms around someone and resting his cheek against their back. He always kept the driver faceless, kept their clothes plain, but when it came to the hair...it was always choppy, long and black.

Keith decides for him, helmet obscuring most of has face save for the clear visor over his eyes as he reaches back with both hands and pulls Lance’s arms around his middle, locking them at his front. His cape is stuffed into the same backpack Lance’s gloves and helmet were put in, on Lance’s back. The bike roars to life between his thighs, and they’re off, chilled October air whipping through Lance’s jersey as they wind a corner onto the dense tree lined streets. It fills his lungs, expands his chest, and the claustrophobic feels that’s plagued him all night dissipates with each breath. He tips his head back, looking up at the canopy of tree branches meeting over the middle of the streets, shifting with the wind.

-

Keith rents a basement apartment in a big corner house in the west suburbs, and it’s kind of a mess; one big open space with a mattress tucked into the far corner, a kitchenette, and an old sofa with upended milkcrates covered in a big serving tray in front of a TV. Everything is cluttered with...stuff. Trash and clothes and random objects that range from books and magazine to a Nerf gun and some garden gnomes.

Lance squeezes into the tiny bathroom right next to the steps that lead upstairs, and does his best to wash off the fake black eye until half his face is pink with only some stubborn flecks of tiny glitter stuck to his skin. The small mirror is dotted with toothpaste, he imagines because Keith brushes his teeth like he does everything else--aggressively. Beyond that is his reflection, hair mussed from all the helmet wearing, skin paled by the bright teal of his jersey, the snarling face of a bobcat looking back at him. He sighs and pushes the door open in time to see Keith clearing off the sofa, dumping the unfolded laundry onto the floor, and Lance thinks he might have an aneurysm.

“Dude,” Lance says, emphatic.

Keith looks up at him, eyebrows climbing. “What?”

“Were those _clean?”_

“Uh,” Keith goes, looking down at the crumpled clothes at his feet. “Some of them?”

Lance takes in a deep breath, letting it fill and expand his chest, before releasing slowly, calmly. “Get the hamper.”

Keith goes, “Um.”

Lance stares.

“I’ll,” Keith sighs, “see if Shiro’s got something upstairs.”

Shiro does have some laundry baskets up on the main floor where the washer and dryer are, which Lance quickly commandeers, stuffing the washer full. After, he forces Keith to change his sheets, collect all the empty bottles and cans, and sort all the odd ends into manageable piles. 

Keith looks annoyed, but he kind of always looks that way? He still does most of what Lance asks him to without complaint, except for throwing away some of the miscellaneous junk.

“Keith, buddy,” Lance says, pulling a pair of old clunky walkie-talkies out of the pile. “How _old_ are these?”

“I’m gonna fix them,” Keith grumbles, defensive, as he grabs them and clutches them to his chest. It’s so ridiculous, almost surreal looking, because he’s still dressed as a vampire with that lipstick on.

Lance puts his hands up in silent surrender, then unceremoniously drops back onto the sofa with a noisy sigh, sagging boneless into the cushions. When he picks his head up, Keith is hovering near the makeshift coffee table, still holding the talkies, looking like he’s stuck. Lance cocks at eyebrow, asking slowly, “Something wrong?”

Keith shakes his head, places the talkies on the tray, and steps over Lance’s extended legs to plop down on the other end of the sofa. He picks up the remote, and the TV flickers to life.

“What do you want to watch?” Keith asks.

A shrug. “Whatever’s fine.”

Keith gives him a look, one that clearly reads how much he knows that _whatever_ is not fine. Something twists in Lance’s ribs, because right, Keith kind of knows him. He hasn’t seen Keith in like, a year or something, but that doesn’t mean either of them have forgotten that long weekend at Allura’s lakehouse summer after freshman year of college where it pissed rain for four whole days and the two of them nearly brawled over the TV remote. Or the class trip in tenth grade to the aquarium where the bus got stuck in deadlock traffic and a two hour ride home took five hours, Keith and Lance tucked away in the last seat, listening to Lance’s iPod with one earbud each until they nodded off into a thin sleep. Or Matt’s graduation party where Lance had gotten _buh-lasted_ and woke up still drunk at like 5am in a hammock in the backyard wearing Keith’s jacket. 

His eyes snap back to the TV when he hears a very familiar theme song.

“Oh, go back!” Lance hits Keith’s shoulder. “Further, further—stop.”

He can hear the condescension dripping off of Keith’s words as he goes, “Scooby Doo?”

“Dude, I used to love Scooby Doo,” Lance says, a surge of affection hitting him square in the chest. “Don’t tell me you didn’t love this stuff when you were a kid.”

Keith folds into himself a bit. “Never seen it.”

Lance sits up. “You’ve never see Scooby Doo?”

“I didn’t watch TV when I was a kid,” Keith says, which Lance knows means _I didn’t have TV when I was a kid._ Keith talks about it sometimes, his transient childhood, his dad, his mom coming back into his life—but only in bits, and only when he doesn’t realize what he’s really saying. When he doesn’t realize normal kids didn’t go days locked in motel rooms eating uncooked ramen and poptarts, when he doesn’t realize normal kids didn’t find their dad’s sawed off shotgun lying around.

“Yo, we’re watching this. We have to.”

Keith rolls his eyes, but puts the remote down on the arm of the couch and sinks back. He squints at the screen. “It’s a cartoon—why does it have a laugh track?”

“Shh!” Lance shoves him.

“Don’t shh me.” Keith shoves back.

Keith doesn’t shut up. He keeps saying things like, “this looks terrible and why is there a random song playing? And why the hell is the dog talking?” Lance can’t find it in himself to be annoyed at the running commentary, though, even if he outwardly scoffs and rolls his eyes—it’s all show, and all contradicted by the smile tacked into the corners of his mouth. When Keith pushes, Lance loves pushing back. It’s always been their thing, and the familiar ebb and flow of easy ribbing and snide comments and shoves makes Lance remember, _oh, right. This is who I am._

“Why am I not surprised,” Lance groans, “that you don’t know how to just like something?”

Keith scowls. “I like a lot of things.”

“Oh yeah?” Lance snorts. “Like what?”

Keith inhales, like he’s getting ready to unleash on Lance, but freezes, a pinned butterfly behind glass.

“Ha! See? You can’t even think of _one_ thing.” 

That seems to snap Keith out of his freeze, and he shakes his head, pulling at the loose threads of his cape. His fingernails are painted black, Lance notices. “I like cars.”

“You fix cars for a living. I would hope you like cars.”

Keith gives him a look, one of those _you don’t get it_ looks. Lance bristles—if Keith is just gonna be like this, then why is Lance even here? He turns back to face the TV, arms crossed over his chest, wondering if Hunk would come and get him if he asks.

_“Jinkies! I can’t see a thing without my glasses!”_

“I can just take you home,” Keith finally says, breaking the tension.

And that just makes Lance’s more annoyed. “Sure. Okay. Whatever.”

“Dude,” Keith says, clipped, his eyes narrowed. “Don’t be like that.”

“Like what?” Lance snaps back. “Like someone who doesn’t want to be-to be _treated_ like they’re the most annoying person in the world?”

Keith’s face creases. “When did I treat you like that?”

“An easier question would be when didn’t you treat me like that.”

Keith’s mouth drops open, soundless, eyes searching Lance’s face for something. Lance braces himself, tense when Keith finally says, “I’m sorry.”

Lance blinks, sharp pang in his chest pulling between his ribs, because that’s not what he expected to come out of Keith’s (still red, painted) mouth. He expected another fight. He expected something like how it all used to be. He doesn’t know what to do with an apology, except say, “Me, too.”

The basement feels too small, suddenly. The awful, tangled feelings that have been knotted into Lance for so long threatening to burst out of him, for better or worse. Keith turns towards him, their knees knocking together, and Lance feels seventeen again, nervous and full to bursting with every emotion ever, too big and too small at the same time. He almost laughs, because god, when was the last time he truly, deeply and wholly felt _anything?_

He lifts his eyes, meeting Keith’s. 

“Want to go for a walk?” Keith asks. “Maybe?”

Which is how he and Keith end up climbing the concrete steps from his apartment up into the backyard, Lance jamming his helmet back on so isn’t just some dude in a jersey. It's cool out, too cold to forgo wearing a jacket, but he likes it. There are days he misses the SoCal heat he grew up in, the ocean, his dad’s house....but not right now. He likes cold October, evidence of seasons changing and time moving, ears and nose bitten red, and he likes feeling the warmth radiating at his side, off of Keith. They wander down the sidewalk, group of kids running past them in a rainbow of costumes, shrieking and laughing and lugging heavy pillowcases behind them.

Lance stares after them. “I miss that.”

“What?” Keith asks. “Dressing up?”

“Not really, I mean—that’s part of it, but like,” Lance makes an abortive gesture trying to find the words. “Just like, loving Halloween. Loving stuff, like whatever. I miss that.”

They walk a little further, past the lit porches and glowing jack-o-lanterns. Keith's cape flutters behind them, and Lance realizes how much effort he's really put into this costume. They're real clothes, no shiny nylon or crookedly sewn polyester, but an actually tailored double-breasted waistcoat with matching pants and cape. 

“I never really had that—y’know,” Keith says, and Lance doesn’t know. “Moving around all the time. Never really did the Halloween thing.” A pause, then a quiet admission, “I always really wanted to, though.”

It’s the first time Keith’s ever said anything like that—it’s always just been passing comments like, _I never really had fruit_. Or, _what’s Disney World?_ Never a full admission of wanting what his younger self never had, of acknowledging he's someone who ever wanted and could ever want things. Lance's throat tightens, and he has to look away, forward. 

Lance sees it, sitting there on the stoop of the house their passing by—a totally full bowl of candy with a handwritten sign on the front that reads, PLEASE ONLY TAKE 2!!

“You okay there, bud?” Keith asks, waving a hand in front of Lance’s fixed gaze. Then Lance is moving, he’s crouching and running up to the house, Keith hissing behind him. “Lance! What are you— _put that back!”_

But Lance already has the bowl in his arms. 

“Go,” he says, low, power walking past Keith. _“Go.”_

“Lance, put it—”

The front screen door bursts open, banging against the siding of the house, and Lance hears a deep, angry voice shout, “Hey! Give that back!”

“RUN!” Lance bellows, bolting down the sidewalk, candy flying off the top of the bowl. Keith’s a breath behind him, sprinting past the groups of kids cheering them on. They run longer than they need to—whoever’d been shouting hadn’t bothered to chase after them past the end of their walkway, but the surge of adrenaline vaults them with breakneck speed around the block, through the backyard gate, down the steps and into the apartment. They collapse into a heap on the carpet, laughing without sound because they’re too out of breath, dozens of mini sized candy bars scattered around their heaving bodies.

“That was,” Keith gasps, “ _so_ dumb.”

“But look.” Lance reaches overhead. “Reese's.”

Keith loves Reese's. Lance had been there the first time he’d ever tried one, biting tentatively and chewing, his face lighting up so suddenly and so brightly Lance’s heart had done somersaults. Lance had suffered through some truly awful crushes before, spinning himself into knots over sweet faced girls with vicious mouths, square-jawed jocks who ducked their heads to hear him better when he was speaking in a crowded hallway, anyone who was just barely out of reach so he could flirt obnoxiously without any real consequences. Instantaneous attraction that would never move beyond the point of his theatrics, past pining—it was fun, it was easy, and most importantly it was safe.

Keith had been a sleeper cell, too aggravating and too aloof for a sweet high school crush, too talented and infuriating to consume any of Lance’s feelings other than a burnt jealousy. So when the tiny moments started to stack up, when Lance felt himself trying to find and hold Keith’s attention, when fighting was the easiest way to do that and when the softer moments started to undo Lance…he was at a complete loss for what came next. He didn’t know how to act on those feelings, couldn’t read Keith to save his life, and figured with enough time and enough distance the feelings would fade. He went to college out of state, he dated, he fell for other people. He did everything he was supposed to do to.

None of that matters on the floor of Keith’s apartment, surrounded by stolen candy, lying there facing each other, breathing heavy. And that lipstick. _That lipstick._ When he inches his face forward, Keith doesn’t move away. When their noses brush, Keith’s hand finds the front of Lance’s jersey, clutching, keeping him there.

_“YO, I’LL TELL YOU WHAT I WANT, WHAT I REALLY REALLY WANT—”_

Lance’s phone blares from his pocket, startling them both enough for their foreheads to bang together, moment effectively ruined. Lance hisses, flopping onto his back as he reaches for his pocket. Hunk’s name and picture light up the screen, and Lance hits answer without a second thought, because he always answers when Hunk calls.

“Dude, where are you? I’ve been looking for you all night.”

Hunk’s actually kind of pissed, Lance can hear it in his voice and winces, because he probably should’ve told Hunk he was leaving like a good, responsible friend. He sits up, “Yo, I’m so sorry—I left.”

“How?” Hunk asks. “With who?”

“Uh.” Lance’s eyes flicker to Keith, who’s opened a mini pack of Skittles and is languidly popping them into his mouth one by one as he watches Lance. “Keith.”

There’s a beat, and then, “Ohhhhh, you went home with _Keith.”_

Lance’s face burns, and he’s tempted to go, the way he always does when Hunk insinuates about him and Keith, _it’s not like that._ But Lance is very sure they’d just been about to kiss, and would have if Hunk hadn’t called. He pivots, just enough to not be able to see Keith’s thousand yard stare bearing into him from three feet away, and hisses, “I’m hanging up on you.”

“How can you hang up on me if you’re too busy being hung up on K—” Hunk cuts off as Lance ends the call, pressing on the screen as hard as he can to try and get the satisfaction of slamming a phone back in its cradle.

When he looks back, Keith’s moved onto a fun sized Snickers.

“Hunk,” Lance says by way of explanation, clearing his throat. “Wondering where I went.”

“Do you need me to take you back?” Keith asks.

Lance rubs at the back of his burning neck. “Not unless you want me to leave?”

Keith stands, picking up some of the fallen candy and scooping it back into the bowl before heading over to the couch, hitting the power button on the remote and sitting down. He starts opening a Reeses, nodding to the TV. “Scooby Doo’s still on.”

Lance scrambles to his feet.

-

“So do they understand him when he talks?”

“Uh.” Lance squints at the screen. “I think maybe only Shaggy does?”

“Also, if you’re going around in a giant van painted orange and green, you’re kind of just asking for trouble.”

“Says the guy who owns a bright red motorcycle.”

“I’ve never looked for trouble in my life,” Keith lies, “not once.”

“Yeah, okay,” Lance scoffs, reaching across. “Quit hogging all the Almond Joys.”

“You don’t even like coconut!”

“So? I still like Almond Joys.”

“That literally makes no—get _off_ me.”

They scuffle on the couch, a lot of shoving and twisting without any real elbow grease, but when Lance darts his hand over to the literal hoard of Almond Joys on the fold out table to the left of the sofa, he hits Keith’s face. Not hard, not even on purpose, just an accidental graze, trying not to wince at the way Keith’s knees are butting into Lance’s stomach.

“Ha!” he holds up the candy bar in triumph, but when Keith sit up all the way and scowls, Lance's huge grin falls away.

Keith's lipstick is smudged, from the corner of his mouth back up onto his cheek. Lance’s belly plummets, and he has to, he _has_ to kiss him, surging forward and knocking Keith back against the arm of the sofa.

Keith’s hands are in his hair, having knocked off the helmet, fingers threading through and gripping, a race of goosebumps zinging down Lance’s arms. And the tighter held holds on, the more he opens up underneath Lance, hips shifting to let Lance settle against him, lips parting, legs tangling. Keith’s mouth tastes achingly sweet, and the skin Lance’s hands find under his rucked up shirt is hot, because Keith has always run hot like a furnace, like a sun.

He grips the arm of the sofa for leverage so he doesn’t like, smother Keith, and accidentally knocks the bowl onto the floor, candy going flying again. Lance pulls back with a audible, smacking pop, swearing under his breath, but Keith...Keith’s mouth is smeared with red lipstick, swollen, fringe having fallen out of his face. He looks debauched, breathing heavy as he hisses, “Leave it.”

He yanks Lance back down by the collar of his jersey.

-

Well after midnight, Keith takes him home, because they both have work tomorrow. All the houses have turned off their decorative lights, all jack-o-lanterns blown out, costumed kids long gone with only loitering teens in twisted rubber masks running around. At a stoplight before turning onto Central Ave, a tiny beige car pulls up next to them, packed with high schoolers, bass bumping so loud Lance can feel the vibrations through the pavement. The back window rolls down, and someone in a wolf mask leaning out of the car, staring the two of them down. He feels Keith tense, Lance holding tighter at his waist, bracing himself to get called a name, or have something thrown at them--something awful and teenager-like.

But the wolf just tilts their head back and lets out a loud, unrestrained howl that echoes down the empty street.

Lance's fear evaporates with a disbelieving laugh, and he figures he might as well, right? He throws his own head back in a long, “AaarrrrooOOOOOOO!”

The other teens in the car all start howling too; in harmony it almost sounds real. Lance can't stop smiling, and when the light turns green and Keith revs the engine before taking off down the avenue, he swears he can feel the reverberation of a howl from where his chest is pressed to Keith’s back.

-

Keith kisses Lance soundly on his porch against the railing, and only breaks away to walk backwards down the steps before putting his helmet back on. Lance watches the red taillights of his bike streak down the street before turning the corner, and Lance turns one of his own through the doorway and into his house.

He wakes up in sheer terror.

“Oh my god,” he groans at his ceiling. “Oh my GOD.”

He smacks both hands over his face, eyes jammed shut. He kissed Keith last night. He kissed Keith. They made out like, _extensively._ In the stark light of morning, his costume strewn across the floor and his heart hammering inside his chest, there are no shadows left to hide in. If it was anyone else, if it was any other crush, Lance would be over the moon. He’d be singing in the shower and sending good morning texts, replaying every slow slide of lips over and over again in his head and smile to himself as he makes breakfast.

Instead he’s nearly tearing out his hair because he’s wanted this for so long, he’s been so into Keith for so long, and Keith knows him in the oddest but truest ways that make Lance feel so rawly exposed. God, he doesn’t want to mess this up. He might have messed it up already, they never even talked about anything, does Keith even have his number—

“Lance!” his mom’s voice.

Lance drags a hand down his face, pulling at his lower eyelids. “What?”

“LANCE.”

“Oh my—” Lance launches himself out of bed, rips open his bedroom door and hollers down the steps. “WHAT?”

“YOU KEEP YELLING AT YOUR MOTHER LIKE THAT, AND I’LL TELL YOU WHAT!” she hollers back up. “What the hell is on the porch?”

He makes a face at the staircase railing. _“What?”_

“The bowl on the porch!” she says, clearly exasperated. “Is it yours?”

Lance doesn’t bother putting on a shirt, just pads downstairs, pushing open the front door and when he looks down, there’s a huge bowl full of Almond Joys on the top step of the porch. Lance frowns, stooping to pick up—it’s way too heavy to just be mini sized candy bars. He sticks his hand in.

Smiling ear to ear, Lance pulls out a walkie talkie.

 

-end-

**Author's Note:**

> huge thanks to gerard way for dropping that [absolute jam](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TaxHIYOzMUQ) just in time for me to steal the name for the title of this fic. thanks babe ur always lookin out
> 
> as always, you can find me [at chillnaxin](http://chillnaxin.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. if you liked this fic,[ please consider reblogging it :)](http://chillnaxin.tumblr.com/post/179601798641/baby-youre-a-haunted-house)
> 
> have a happy halloween!!!


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